Not Your Housekeeper
by Haiza Tyri
Summary: This is a direct sequel to my drabble series "Archenemy" and is the tale of how Sherlock helped keep Mrs Hudson's husband on death row in Florida.
1. 26 May 2000

**Author's Note: This is an immediate sequel to "Archenemy," a series of drabbles based on Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship from 1976 to 2000 ****(http:/www . fanfiction . net/s/6459881/1/Archenemy). Though it is a sequel, it can also stand alone as the tale of how Sherlock helped keep Mrs Hudson's husband on death row in Florida.**

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_26 May 2000_

Dear Esther,

I think I could get used to this email thing. It's nicer than waiting for the post from England.

Well, dear, I don't know how well I like Florida yet. It's very warm and muggy and bright (though they say it's very dry this year). Mr. Hudson loves it, of course. After twenty years in London, he's been longing for this sort of weather. Serves me right for marrying an American. Well, at least he's happy here. At least I think so. He sits about like a great, fat spider, all engorged, watching the telly, not like he used to be. I remember him when he was young and slender and active— Well, no need to go on about him to _you,_ dear cousin Esther.

I have a most interesting neighbor. He's actually English, if you'll believe that, a very nice and well-bred but strange young man. I only heard him, at first, playing violin in his flat next door. He plays strange, wailing, keening stuff, not like proper violin music at all—I think he makes it up—but I quite like it.

Then, first time we met, both coming out of our flats at the same time yesterday, he took one look at me and said, "You should leave him."

I said, "Sorry?"

He said, "You should leave him, your husband."

For some reason I didn't take offense at such cheekiness from a man young enough to be my son. I said, "I couldn't do that. He's my husband."

He gave me a look as if I'd just been very stupid and said, "Sorry to have bothered you," and went away.

He's puzzled me all day. How did he know about my husband? We haven't had a row since we arrived—that's how I know about him liking the weather. The cold always makes him so irritable. But that young man just seemed to read me, like you'd read a signpost, the moment his eyes lighted on me. I should describe him to you, as I know you'll be getting curious.

Well, he's young, barely more than a boy, really. Not even twenty-five, I'd say. Very tall, very thin, very pale, too much so, like he's been ill recently. Loads of dark hair but very pale grey eyes and a very long, sharpish face. Attractive, really, though you wouldn't think so by my description. But so very thin, sort of wan, sad in the eyes but sharp in the voice.

I don't know why I feel so sorry for him. Maybe just to keep from feeling sorry for myself?

Love from your cousin,

Mary Hudson


	2. 29 May 2000

_29 May 2000_

Dear Esther,

Second meeting with Mr. Holmes—that's his name, Sherlock Holmes. He didn't say hello this morning but started directly with, "Do you like Miami better than Hinckley, Mrs. Hudson?"

Of course I asked, "How on earth do you know I was brought up in Hinckley?"

"Accent," he said. "Bit of a hobby of mine, English and American accents."

I said, "Is that why you're here?" He looked surprised at that, so I said, "You're not a Miami sort of man. But you won't hear many regional Floridian accents here. People move here from all over the country."

"I know. That's why I've come here. It's a virtual smorgasbord of American accents. Yesterday I spoke to a woman from Missoula, Montana, a man from Saint Joseph, Missouri, and another man from Minnesota."

He gave me a sharp glance as he said that, and I said lightly, "Been talking to my husband, have you?"

"No, I have never spoken with your husband, but having now heard a Minnesota accent, I can hear that you have lived many years with such an accent."

"How can you tell that?"

"Your Ohs, Mrs. Hudson, your Ohs!"

He started to move past me, and I stopped him. "You've been ill lately, haven't you, Mr. Holmes?"

His eyes went—well, _bleak_ is the word, and he didn't answer but just looked at me as if he thought I'd been spying on him.

"You're looking terribly peaky. You make sure you get good rest and food."

He suddenly smiled at me. "The body is unimportant, Mrs. Hudson, so long as it carries the brain."

I called after him, "The brain won't work properly if the body isn't nourished!"

He was going down the stairwell, but I heard, "Now you sound like someone I know."

"Who?"

"An enemy."

That was the last I heard from him today. But really, how could a boy of twenty-three or so have an enemy? Especially one who worries about his health? But, do you know, Esther, I'm really starting to enjoy Miami.

Love,

Mary


	3. 07 June 2000

_07 June 2000_

Dear Esther,

I'm sorry I've not been faithful about this emailing, my dear, but I've had such a to-do for the last several days. He's better now, thank the good Lord, though still in some pain, and beginning to show it by his stubbornness. No, not my husband, my dear, no such luck. That Mr. Holmes. You wouldn't have believed the sight of him three days ago, the poor dear.

I suppose I ought to start from the beginning. I was just coming home from the supermarket, and at the top of the stairwell he was just there, slumped in the corner, nearly naked, my dear, trembling all over, and bright, bright red. You remember I told you how pale his poor skin was. Now it was just like a boiled lobster shell. I dropped my bags all over the stairs and cried, like a fool, "Mr. Holmes! What _have_ you been doing to yourself?"

"I have _not_ been sunbathing, I assure you." He sounded _amused._ "I was attacked. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

But he couldn't even get up without my help, and though it hurt the poor boy dreadfully anytime I touched him, we got him into his flat together. He wouldn't let me call a doctor or take him to hospital, though it was obvious he had heat exhaustion if not outright stroke, and his sunburn was forming blisters in places. I made him get into a cool bath and fetched aloe vera and calamine, and he was too sick to protest, though I think he wanted to. He doesn't like or else isn't used to people taking care of him. He didn't like me forcing him to drink loads of liquids, either; it seemed to remind him of his previous illness, and he's not a man who is easily led at the best of times.

He had quite a high fever for a day or two, which worried him, rather more than the nausea and headaches, because he prizes his brain very highly, and you know how high fevers are. Very irritable, he was. Sometimes he wandered a bit: he kept going on about copious amounts of nitrogen, whatever that meant, and he accused me of being someone called Mycroft who, it seemed, had been pursuing and driving him for years—who does that to such an intelligent boy? He seems driven enough in himself.

Twice he called me Mummy. Once it was when I had just given him some water and couldn't help stroking his dark hair—he suddenly reminded me of my own poor boy, and when he called me Mummy it made the tears come to my eyes. If he'd lived to be Sherlock's age, I would want someone to do for him what I was doing for Sherlock.

The second time he called me Mummy, I don't expect he was talking to _me_ at all. It was when his fever was highest, and he suddenly cried out, "I'm sorry, Mummy! I'm sorry!" over and over, just like a little boy might, with his grey eyes all full of tears—and he's not a crying sort of man, Esther, normally almost cold and rude-sounding, though I'm sure he doesn't mean to be rude. Heart-breaking, it was. I tried to calm him by telling him his Mum wasn't there, but it didn't work, so finally I stroked his hair again and said, "I forgive you, Sherlock," and he looked relieved and went straight off to sleep. The next day (today, actually) he was right back to his old self and unaware (I think) of his wanderings. At least I hope so. He's not the sort of man to be glad about involuntary self-disclosure to a neighbor.

Today he told me about what happened. Seems he's a sort of detective, though he resists the term "amateur detective." He's assisted the London police. He really is here studying accents (I suppose that would help a detective find out where a suspect's really from?), but he found out about something fishy going on (he wouldn't tell me what or with whom, but I think that's where the nitrogen came in), was following someone (he called it "tracking"), and was assaulted. Woke up to find himself stripped to his underpants and burnt in the Florida sun. From the way he talked about them (whoever did it), he seemed to _admire_ them! He called them "creative." Creative! What kind of a man appreciates a _creative_ assault?

In the meantime, I've turned my attention to his flat. What a state it was in, Esther! Books and CDs and all manner of mysterious equipment heaped everywhere, next to no food in the refrigerator, a human skull on the table! How did he get it through customs, I wonder? He called it his only friend. I said, pretending to be hurt, "What about me?" And he smiled at me, something he doesn't do often. He complained at me for cleaning up, but he doesn't seem to mind me. Which is good, because he's stuck with me until he's better, whatever he says about his body not mattering. Someone's got to take care of him. He's just a boy.

Love,

Mary

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**Author's note: My sister challenged me to work the term "copious amounts of nitrogen" into this story. So I did. :D**


	4. 05 July 2000

_05 July 2000_

Oh, Esther, something terrible has happened! I'm all shook up. You're going to say "I told you so," except you're too sweet to say something like that. I wish you were here. Sherlock has been wonderful, but he doesn't know that what an old woman really needs is someone to put their arms around her and tell her it will be alright.

He's been arrested—my husband. Harold's been arrested. For—for—oh, it's horrible. For three murders back in Minnesota, before we ever met, and for one here. In Miami. In the last few months. Now they're looking into his London activities.

It's so…_awful…_being mixed up in something like this. But—this is even more awful—I feel _vindicated._ As would you, if you weren't as good and sweet as you are. I knew it, didn't I? You knew it first, the very first time you met him, and you tried to warn me, and I wouldn't listen, like a silly young fool. But later, I suspected. You alone know how I've nearly hated him these last ten years, and how sometimes he's frightened me. He knew I knew, and he knew I had no proof and would never dare go to the police, and he's taunted me with it in a thousand imperceptible ways. Young Sherlock wasn't the first person to ask me why I didn't leave him. But I had made my bed, and I must lie in it. I believe in facing my choices instead of running away from them.

Well, now you know. I don't think they'll find anything in London. Those first years, we were so caught up in each other, and then later he was completely caught up in his job. I think—not that I know anything, but I think that it's when he feels useless that he—you know. Hurts people. Before he came to London and we met, he was going nowhere in his job. And then, in London, he was so _happy._ But since he got ill and his medications made him gain so much weight and lose all his energy and they made him retire… The more sedentary he's got, the more he's frightened me. Sherlock could see that in a snap.

But he's helping, Sherlock is. He has some kind of London police connections, and they've contacted the Miami police, and they're letting him help. Because he's got some of the most peculiar talents. Nobody here has ever seen anything like them.

He asked me straight-out, first of all, "What do you want?" And I knew what he meant. He wanted to know if I wanted Harold in prison or home with me. I think, you see, that he would make whichever I wanted happen. Not ethical and honest and all, but very sweet, and he's not usually a sweet man. Doesn't think of it, I imagine. And I told him immediately that if Harold was guilty, I wanted him in prison. I know he is guilty, and so does Sherlock, and I must confess that it will be a great weight gone when he is gone. I've felt like he's _controlled_ me for so long. Just having him out of the flat makes the whole place seem huge and light and beautiful.

Love,

Mary


	5. 06 July 2000

_06 July 2000_

Oh, thank you, oh, thank you, Esther, for volunteering to come out to Florida to be with me! You don't know how much I've wanted you. Except you have, which is why you're coming. I'm in a hotel now; the police have completely taken over my flat.

I've hardly seen Sherlock at all, except when he was whizzing about my flat studying things with the police. Now he's out at crime scenes. He has such an odd way of working! He stands perfectly still and his eyes dart all around and seem to see _everything._ And not only see it but also understand what it means. And then he rushes at something and stares at it, and moves things about, and barks out the most peculiar questions. All the American police here think he's mad, except their chief inspector—what do they call her? Captain. Except their captain, who knows some French-sounding London inspector and thinks he's as wonderful as I do.

Well, when you get here you'll get to meet him, and we'll see if your idea of him from my emails is anything like the reality. But of course you mustn't tell him everything I've told you about him. I know you won't, but I have to say it anyway. He'd probably never speak to me again, and then where would I be in all this mess?

I'm so eager to see you, dear. Give my love to your grandbabies.

Love,

Mary


	6. 15 August 2000

_15 August 2000_

Dear Esther,

Thank you for being here for all that. You've been a great support to me. Now there's only the trial to live through, and who knows when that will be. I have to find my husband an attorney. A defense attorney! What sort of person defends a serial murderer? Do they really think their clients are innocent, or do they just need the work? Or maybe they just like the work. There's something not quite decent about that idea, that someone would fight to free a murderer or fight to get an innocent person in prison, just because the fight itself is so exciting.

I'm sorry you didn't like my dear Sherlock better. I know he's acerbic and doesn't bother about people's finer feelings, but there's a straight-forwardness to him that I wish you could appreciate better. It's music to me after living with lies and manipulations for so long.

However, the police agree with you about one thing, and that is that he will not make a favorable impression on the jury and they don't want him testifying at the trial, despite the fact that he built the entire case. So, now that he has solved his nitrogen case too, he has decided that he is leaving Miami (the weather hasn't agreed with him any more than it has with me) and is going to spend a year at a school in Massachusetts (that's up north) called the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Studying technology, I presume. I predict that by the time the year is out, he'll either be sent down or will end up a professor. I asked him if he was ever going back to England, and he frowned and said he didn't like the way the government in England was heading and he wasn't sure.

Well, I'll miss him, more than I'll miss Harold, I'm sure, and meanwhile I've got to stay in Miami for the trial. How dreary. But it shouldn't be a long trial, not with the evidence Sherlock provided. I owe the dear boy so much. One thing I can take credit for, though, is his increased health. He's been having the time of his life rushing about solving things for me, worrying me by refusing to eat but looking happier and happier the more he has to do. And that's what's important, isn't it?

Thank you again, dear Esther. If you would say prayers for me the next time you go to Mass, I should so appreciate it.

Love,

Mary


	7. 04 June 2001

_04 June 2001_

Dear Esther,

The trial starts on Thursday. I had no idea it took so long to put a trial together. I'm already exhausted; I don't look forward to sitting through a murder trial for a man I think should be in prison for the rest of his life whilst receiving condolences from strangers who think I must be cut up because of it. Would it be terribly wrong of me to go traveling during the trial instead of attending? Sherlock thinks I ought to, but he doesn't often consider how things look. I don't think he even knows what things he says and does take people aback, or if he'd care if he did.

I haven't actually seen Sherlock often in the last year since I met him. He's been spending all his time at that MIT place, studying things I wouldn't have the slightest what they are, and also traveling about this huge country studying the sorts of things people do here, and also solving mysteries. The police are quite impressed by him, I understand. They seem to tolerate eccentrics here very well.

But I did see him this last weekend (you notice I'm so sick of all this trial rubbish that I'm just avoiding it altogether). He graduated from his school with what they call an Associate's Degree, which usually takes two years but he did it in one. Of course. And do you know what? _I_ went to his graduation, but _he_ didn't. Boring, he said. He never went to his Cambridge graduation, either. But he allowed me to take him to dinner, where he spent the entire time telling me all about the differences between American and British criminals and hardly eating a thing. I forgot it all the moment he told me, of course—I don't understand that sort of thing. But he was happy telling me about it, which was enough for me.

Now he's planning to go back to England. Just a year ago he didn't want to have anything to do with it, but he says he misses London and our particularly British brand of criminal. He mentioned he wanted to go to Oxford, a bit odd after having gone to Cambridge, but it seemed to strike him with a bit of glee to think of it. He's going to study…what did he say? Urban anthropology, anatomy, and geology. Such a strange combination, but he's a strange, genius man. I never have understood him, but I can't help loving him. He's just the age my own boy would have been, though I can't imagine that my son would have been anything like him. He'd make any mother proud, though.

Love,

Mary.


	8. 30 July 2001

_30 July 2001_

It's over, Esther. I didn't expect it to be that quick. They convicted him, and sentencing is in a month. I don't want to think right now about what the sentence will be. They still have the death penalty here, and he killed four people. They call that a serial killer. After being married for twenty-five years to a serial-killer, I don't know what I want to happen. How can one want a man one loved and had a child with to die? But the thought of him still being in the world gives me an unpleasant chill.

I'd better email Sherlock with the news. Thank you for being with me through all this, Esther, even while you've been so far away.

Love,

Mary


	9. 01 September 2001

_01 September 2001_

Dear Sherlock,

I thought you'd want to know: Harold has been sentenced to death. Thank you for helping me.

How is Oxford?

Love from,

Mrs Hudson


	10. 18 April 2006

_18 April 2006_

Dear Esther,

It's time, Esther, dear. After six years in the United States, I am ready to come home. I couldn't come five years ago. There were too many memories in London, good memories that were completely deflated. Traveling about this great, huge country has been wonderful, healing, really. Those incredible mountains in Colorado, and the colors of the autumn in Massachusetts, and the lovely people in South Carolina who thought my accent romantic, and the fantastic great Arch in Missouri. Not to mention driving on the wrong side of the road!

Then suddenly I woke up and realized I wanted to go home. I shall return to the home Harold and I lived in in London; my tenants' lease is up, and they are moving to Scotland, of all places. I shan't move back into B. I couldn't bear that. I will live in A and rent out B.

So expect me on Wednesday, my dear.

Love,

Mary


	11. 14 July 2007

_14 July 2007_

Dear Esther,

I hope you are having a lovely holiday in Norway. Don't forget to send me a postcard of those magnificent fjords.

The appointment at the doctor's went well today. My wretched hip is doing a little better, now that the weather is warmer. However, my tenants are moving out again. I seem to have the worst luck keeping tenants. I hope it isn't that they've found out about Harold. Most people seem happy to assume that I'm a widow. Of course, I will be, soon, but no one thinks a widow is a widow because her husband was executed.

Speaking of Harold, he's appealing again. I'm entirely sick of the whole thing.

Love,

Mary


	12. 01 May 2008

_01 May 2008_

Dear Mr. Holmes,

I hope you remember me, but if you don't, it's quite alright. After all, we haven't been in communication for over five years. But I've read your website with interest. We met in Florida, nearly exactly eight years ago; you had a flat next to mine for a few months. You helped me—well, you helped the police when my husband was arrested for murder. He's been on Death Row in Florida since he was convicted in 2001, and now the most terrible thing has happened. They say they're going to release him!

You and I both knew without a doubt he was guilty, Sherlock, but now some of the evidence is being questioned. I'm frightened—I'm terribly frightened. I've had emails from him, very commonplace emails, but after having lived with the man for twenty-five years, I can still read the threats between the lines of the commonplace. That was how he always used to threaten me, with words no one would ever believe would frighten anyone. I'm so afraid that if he's released, someone will die, whether it's me or some other innocent person who just happens to be in his way. Will you please help me, Sherlock? I'm sure the police wouldn't believe an old Englishwoman who just happened to be married to the man, but they may believe you, you're so clever and clear-sighted.

Please help me, Sherlock. I've often remembered you with great pleasure over the last few years, though I didn't wish to intrude old associations on you. Now I am intruding, and I'll always be in your debt if you can help me.

Love from

Mary Hudson


	13. 05 May 2008

_05 May 2008_

Dear Esther,

You wouldn't believe who's sitting next to me at this very moment, letting me send you an email from his computer on the airport wireless system. Sherlock Holmes! Remember him? He's just as sweet as he used to be. No, I take that back. He was never very sweet. But he was a good boy, and he's a good man. He agreed not only to try to help me prove his evidence against my husband true but to travel with me all the way back to Florida. In case they don't remember him, he has letters of introduction from a Detective Inspector here in London and from some relative or other who seems to be so important in the government that he's quite invisible. He seem reluctant to use the letters—just as stubborn and proud as ever, I imagine—but he will if he has to. I'm quite confident that in his hands everything will be resolved.

Sherlock is different, but he's just the same. He was very nearly cordial when he showed up at 221 and told me he remembered me very well indeed. Still as tall, thin, and pale as ever, still very young and looking like his face is sculpted out of marble, but older, too, with his head stuffed with even more knowledge and less emotional than he used to be, but more so, too. How can I explain? You complained, remember, when you met him before, that he seemed like a strange, alien creature whose only emotion was irritation with stupid people. You can be forgiven for that, because you didn't know him like I did, but you were right all the same. Almost the only emotions he expressed were amusement and anger. Now he's less angry, seems to have grown up a bit, steadied a bit, become a little more willing to express it when he's pleased. And he is very pleased, I must say, to have the opportunity to tackle my husband again. But, like all people when they're approaching thirty or so, he's settled into himself, and his complete lack of understanding of the insides of other people has become all the more apparent. He understands their outsides like they're signposts, displaying every secret, just like I told you once before, but he doesn't connect it with their insides.

I expect I'm making a complete hash of this explanation, but he does rather defy explanation. But he's still my dear Sherlock, even after so many years. Funny to think we've both been in London all this time and never saw each other. But a young man with an up-and-coming career doesn't need an old lady he once knew dropping round all the time. However, let this be said for him: when an old lady he once knew needed his help, he dropped everything to help her.

Love,

Mary


	14. 31 August 2009

_31 August 2009_

Dear Esther,

Tomorrow's the day. I haven't slept a wink in days. I'm so glad you're going to be with me. The last thing I need is to sit about by myself visualising them sticking a needle in my husband's arm.

Love,

Mary


	15. 03 March 2010

_03 March 2010_

Dear Esther,

You would not believe who I may be having for a tenant! Sherlock Holmes!

You know what a time I've had with tenants. It seems he's had the same problem with flats. He emailed me this morning to say he'd been kicked out of his flat and did I know anyone who could rent out a room inexpensively and immediately? (Who would kick Sherlock out of his flat? Just because he plays violin at all hours? He plays so _well._ Some people have no taste in music.)

Well, as you know, my own tenants left this last week, and with the state of this economy, no one wants to pay what I'm forced to charge. But loads of people are doing flat shares these days, so I told Sherlock he could stay in 221B for a couple of days until he finds a place, and if he likes it, he can rent it from me. He said unfortunately my rate was more than double what he could afford, so I said he should find a flatmate and I'd only charge them each the amount he told me. That's the lowest I could go and still afford to keep the place, or I'd have let him have it all himself for his price, after all he's done for me. Well, he emailed back and said he couldn't imagine anyone wanting him for a flatmate. Of course I emailed him back quick as you like and said don't be ridiculous, just give it a try. So he said he would. He came round and looked at the place and said it was nearly perfect, but finding a flatmate will still be difficult. It would have to be someone who could live with _him_ and whom he could bear to be around.

Just a little earlier, though, people started bringing things round that could only be his, so maybe he's found someone. I hope he's grown out of his messy ways and that the rooms won't look like his flat in Miami did. I don't know if he remembers me cleaning up a bit for him back then, but he needn't expect it here. I must make sure to make it quite clear that I'm to be his landlady, not his housekeeper.

Love,

Mary


	16. 04 March 2010

_04 March 2010_

Dear Esther,

Well, it's settled. Sherlock and his friend are taking 221B. This morning he showed up with another young man, called John Watson, a very nice-looking young fellow, shorttish, with a sort of sad, sweet, curious face and a bad limp. It turns out he was shot in Afghanistan, poor boy. Ooh, it makes my hip ache just to watch him go up the stairs. You know, at my age you expect that sort of thing, not when you're just over thirty and haven't been a doctor or a military man for all that long. But he seems a bit touchy about it. On the whole, though, he seems like a very nice, quiet, intelligent, sensible sort of man, just what Sherlock needs in a flatmate. If there's anything Sherlock isn't, it's sensible.

Of course, Sherlock had made a thorough wreck of the place, just overnight, _and_ he had his friend the skull on the mantelpiece, and the kitchen was all full of glass stuff, chemistry-looking things, and then whilst we were discussing the rent and some frightful local news, the _police_ showed up. They just wanted his help, though. A lot of people have been killing themselves lately, so sad, and all in the same way, and of course they can't figure it out without Sherlock's help. I think he likes being needed. He was so happy about it. And he made poor John go with him, though I can't imagine a young man who's just been shot in Afghanistan wanting to see more dead people, but it made John perk right up, too. Young men and their excitement. Always have to have something going on.

Well, there we are, Esther. I was just having a strange desire for some excitement in my life again, and I have a feeling that life is going to be very interesting with those two boys living in 221B.

Love,

Mary

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**Author's note: Thus ends "Not Your Housekeeper." The story will continue with "Conscience" (http:/www . fanfiction . net/s/6489370/1/Conscience) and end with "Vulcan."**

**Here is the remainder of the Holmes timeline I have put together:**

1969: Mycroft born

1976: Sherlock born

1983: Dad dies

1984: Mycroft tells Sherlock he's a sociopath

1985: Mycroft goes to Oxford

1992: Sherlock goes to Cambridge

1993: Mummy dies

1994: The Gloria Scott Affair

1995: Sherlock graduates from Cambridge

1995-1998: Lestrade gives Sherlock cases to work on

1998-1999: Work falls off

1999-2000: Sherlock goes back on cocaine, Mycroft gets him off it, they become enemies

2000: Sherlock goes to Florida, helps Mrs. Hudson's husband get arrested, convicted

2001: Sherlock starts at Oxford, reads urban anthropology, anatomy, and geology

2004: Sherlock graduates from Oxford

2006: Mrs Hudson returns to London

2008: Sherlock returns to Florida to help Mrs. Hudson keep Mr. Hudson in jail

2009: Mr. Hudson executed

2010: Sherlock meets Watson


End file.
